Blessed
by KSCrusaders
Summary: The anniversary of Corypheus's demise brings joy and celebration for some, reflection and grief for others. When Empress Celene offers to host a memorial at Halamshiral, the members of the Inquisition rally around their leader: the Blessed Herald of Andraste who has already achieved and endured so much. Set after Corypheus's defeat, but before Trespasser. Minor Trespasser and Desce


**Blessed**

 _By KSCrusaders (Sable Rhapsody on BSN)_

 _Cullen_

By some small mercy, Celene's invitation came when Inquisitor Lavellan was away from Skyhold, returning from an expedition to the Deep Roads. Cullen sat, mutinous, as Josephine and Leliana immediately started discussing preparations for the anniversary of Corypheus's defeat. Memorial fountains and ballgowns, uniform fittings and a private meeting with the Empress. His head started to pound after twenty minutes.

But more than anything, he seethed at the Empress's presumption. _A celebration and memorial ceremony to mark our hour of victory,_ Celene had written. As though her soldiers had helped close the Breach, instead of killing their countrymen for months. As though Celene herself had suffered and bled and been hurtled through the Fade and back. She might even have phrased it that way on purpose, no doubt another move in the blighted Game.

"I should have anticipated this," Josephine was saying, frowning at her ledger. "The Inquisition has more than enough gold. We should have hosted this anniversary ourselves, at Skyhold. It would have been a golden opportunity to recruit for the Inquisition."

"I'm happy to let Celene pay for food and guests," said Leliana. "Don't worry so much, Josie. We don't gain as much, but we don't risk Skyhold's security either. I'm sure our commander appreciates not having his keep flooded with chevaliers."

She smiled at Cullen, who folded his arms over his chest.

"Didn't you enjoy the company at Halamshiral?" Leliana teased. "Your suitors will be beside themselves!"

She and Josephine laughed. Cullen narrowed his eyes at them, then picked up Celene's letter. The corners of the perfumed paper creased in his grasp.

"Don't you realize how cruel this is?" he said softly.

The laughter died in their mouths. Cullen didn't mention Solas. He didn't have to. They were all thinking the same thing now. All remembering Lavellan one year ago, hiding her tears all evening before finally retreating to her quarters.

Josephine raised her hands, clearly trying to placate him. "Inquisitor Lavellan would understand, Commander. The political situation-"

"-is not so dire. We don't have to dance to Celene's tune." He didn't address the first half of her sentence. Josephine was right. Lavellan would understand, and that was why he had to stop it here and now. He knew how quickly a person could destroy themselves with duty. It was an all-too-familiar specter for him.

"The Inquisitor knows the Game is cruel. She's become quite the player herself," Leliana said impatiently, picking up where Josephine had left off.

Normally, Cullen would never dare contradict her. This was her domain, after all, not his. But the injustice of the Game, its ruthlessness, compelled him to speak.

"I know that," he said wearily. "But I don't send soldiers into the field with chinks in their armor, and I don't think you should either." He kept picturing Lavellan on the night of the feast, covering her grief with a smile even when surrounded by friends and allies. What would happen this year if they threw her into the viper's nest? How long before the Empress's vultures began to circle?

Josephine tugged the Empress's invitation out of Cullen's hand, holding it in front of her like a shield. "Commander, see reason. We stand to gain a great deal by working with Celene, and-"

"No," said Leliana.

Both Cullen and Josephine turned to stare at their spymaster. Cullen caught himself with his mouth hanging open, and quickly closed it. He shook his head a few times, making sure his ears hadn't deceived him. But he soon recognized the slow smile tugging at the corners of Leliana's mouth. It always spelled trouble for someone, and he prayed it wasn't him.

"Cullen is right," she said slowly. "Even a small mistake could spell disaster. We can gain an advantage without endangering the Inquisitor." She looked absently at the ceiling, in the direction of her rookery tower.

"Charter and Lavellan are the same height. They even look something alike. And Charter would be perfectly placed to learn secrets for us." Her smile grew even wider. "Yes, we can make this work for everyone."

Josephine wrung her hands. "You can't be serious. If we are discovered, it would ruin us!"

"The Orlesians like their masks, so let's use them," said Cullen, seizing on the opportunity. "We're not there to stop an assassination. We'll all wear masks, including Charter. And Lavellan can enjoy the party as just another agent of the Inquisition."

He knew they were stepping into dangerous territory. For reasons he couldn't fathom, the Orlesians considered such tactics crude and artless. Something about such simplistic deception being unworthy of a true player of the Game. But he didn't give a damn. And neither, oddly enough, did Leliana.

"Exactly what I had in mind," she said with an approving smile. "Don't tell me you've learned the Game, Commander?"

"Maker help me. The Void can take me first."

Cullen hesitated, wondering what brought about Leliana's unexpected cooperation. But before he could ask, the doors to the war room suddenly swung open, and Inquisitor Lavellan walked in. She was in her armor and riding boots, her thick traveling cloak splattered with mud. Her sharp green eyes instantly spotted Celene's broken seal on the letter, still clutched in Josephine's hand.

"Ah," she said with a weary smile. "The Empress kept you busy while I was crawling around inside a Titan."

"You- _what?_ " Cullen spluttered, momentarily forgetting everything else.

Lavellan pulled up a chair and began slowly removing her boots. Cullen couldn't help but notice how she often paused to massage the fingers in her left hand.

"It's a long and thrilling tale," she finally said. "I want to do it justice. Brief me, then we'll talk about the Titan."

Josephine stepped forward and held the slightly crumpled letter out to Lavellan, who quickly scanned its contents. The calm resignation on her face chilled Cullen to the bone. He could practically see her steeling herself for the scrutiny of Celene's court once again. How heartless she must think they were.

"Well," Lavellan said, dropping the letter into her lap. "I expected something like this, but I'd hoped Celene would give us more warning."

Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine looked at each other for a moment that seemed to stretch into hours of uncomfortable silence. Finally, Cullen cleared his throat.

"You don't have to deal with her," he said. "We've worked it out. Charter can take your place." The explanation sounded woefully inadequate, even to him. He wanted to say more, something about how much he wanted to help, something that expressed the fury he'd felt at Celene.

But he didn't need to. Lavellan understood. She slumped back into the chair, her eyes closing for a few seconds.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Josephine drew up another chair next to her. "Are you going to tell us about the Titan now?" she asked, and Cullen had to smile at her eagerness.

Lavellan had her old smile back when she opened her eyes. "Sure. It all started with the earthquakes..."

* * *

 _Charter_

The instructions were simple, elegant, spare. And they never once conflicted with her duties in the Inquisition, though she suspected that was by design. Charter kept the words in her heart, though the one who'd given them to her had been gone a year.

 _Keep her safe, da'len._

Easier said than done, when the woman in question kept running off to the ends of the earth seeking ancient secrets. If she could survive a Titan's guardian, what was to keep her from unearthing other truths that should remain hidden? She took a deep breath to clear her mind and knocked on Inquisitor Lavellan's door.

"Come in."

She opened the heavy oaken door and ascended the stairs to find Lavellan sitting at her desk, worrying the end of her quill between her teeth. "What's Comte Doucy's coat-of-arms again?"

"A falcon over a field of clovers." Charter bit back the reflexive "Your Worship" that should have followed the sentence. She would never forget the mix of confusion and horror on Lavellan's face the first time someone addressed her as such.

"Thanks." Lavellan put pen to paper again. " _...by the noble falcon...of your forefathers...and descendants._ " She finished the letter with a flourish and turned back to Charter with an apologetic smile. "Sorry for the delay. If I didn't finish it now, I'd put it off another week."

"I can take that to the rookery on my way out," said Charter, holding her hand out for the letter.

Maybe something in her voice gave her away. Or maybe it was just dumb luck. But Lavellan shook her head and rolled up the letter, pressing the blazing eye of the Inquisition into a pool of soft red wax. "Don't trouble yourself. I'm asking too much of you already."

Charter shook her head. "It is no burden, Inquisitor." Then she saw the shadows under Lavellan's eyes and added, "At least, not for one evening."

Lavellan laughed, though the mirth didn't quite reach her eyes. "Good." She tilted her head thoughtfully, sizing Charter up. "Our eyes are different shapes, but I doubt anybody will notice that."

"Then I suggest the feathered mask from Madame de Fer, to distract from my eyes."

"It's hanging inside the armoire," said Lavellan, waving vaguely over her shoulder. "The dress is on the left, and so are the shoes."

Charter crossed to the armoire and opened it. This gown could not have been more different from Lavellan's Halamshiral attire. Golden chiffon, trimmed with brilliant flames in red thread. Its back was completely open, billowing sleeves and hem dyed to evoke the flames that engulfed Andraste. Suddenly, she understood Lavellan's reluctance to even try it on. Whomever stepped into this gown would be wreathed in layers of burdening fabric, devoured by the symbolism in every stitch.

"It's lovely," she said. The only thing she could say without giving offense.

"It wasn't my idea," Lavellan said flatly. The rapid scratch of her quill started once more. "It's terrifying."

She was right, but not for the reasons she thought. Charter carefully picked up the finery, handling the cloth as though the flames would come to life and consume her. It wasn't meant for her. It was meant for someone who really did have Andraste's grace and steel, however often she denied it. Who could bear that burden for a year without crumbling to ash beneath it.

Someone who gave the Dread Wolf pause.

She glanced over her shoulder to find Lavellan watching her reaction. "This isn't an order," she said gently. "You can always say no, Charter."

 _Keep her safe, da'len_. Implicit in those orders was the unspoken plea: _Help her._

Charter set her jaw, gathered up the Orlesian finery, and closed the armoire.

"But you can't, Inquisitor. That's why I'm doing it."

Something flickered in Lavellan's eyes, too quick to catch through the porcelain mask of courtesy. But when she spoke, Charter still heard warm gratitude in her voice

" _Ma serannas, lethallan_ ." Lavellan left her writing desk and crossed the room, resting her hand on Charter's shoulder. "I can't repay this gift, but I want you to know how much I appreciate it."

Charter bowed deeply, not trusting herself to speak. Cousin. _Kin._ Hearing it from the Inquisitor always made her heart squeeze inside her chest. Lavellan could never imagine how much those words meant meant to Charter, to every elf in the Inquisition. And she could never know what it meant in the grand scheme of things.

As Charter descended into the bustling throne room, she looked down at all of the people who called Skyhold home. A servant sweeping the floors caught her eye and a quick glance passed between them, two links in the inexorable web that led from the Inquisition to the Dread Wolf himself.

She thought of him, alone. Always alone when he spoke in her dreams.

She hoped that somewhere, someone had orders to safeguard him in turn.

* * *

 _Clariel_

She moved through the sea of gowns and gilded masks like a ghost. No one stared. No one even took notice. She was just another guest, enjoying the anniversary of Corypheus's defeat. Coiled braids hid her pointed ears, and the simple, nondescript sky-blue gown was the perfect way camouflage.

She didn't have to do anything, or talk to anyone. The duty had been lifted from her shoulders, just for tonight. And if she was honest...she found herself at a bit of a loss.

For now, she was content to follow Charter from a distance, taking in the surreal sight of her doppelganger rubbing shoulders with Celene's court. Charter had perfected the same half-smile that Clariel learned from Vivienne months ago. She walked like Clariel, talked like Clariel, even took the same kinds of food and refreshment. Her laugh wasn't quite right-too practiced and...well, Orlesian. But no one would ever know the difference.

No one who mattered, at any rate.

It would have been a wonderful opportunity to ferret out some information for Leliana; people would exchange "harmless" secrets with a charming stranger, but not the Herald of Andraste. But she didn't want to risk blowing her cover. So she wandered off to the buffet, trying to make sense of what looked piles of tiny black beads on little plates.

"Oh, the caviar is simply divine!" said a drunken comtesse over her shoulder. She swooped down and seized two of the plates. "I hope they don't run out!"

Clariel smiled back politely; little bits of the black stuff had caught between the noblewoman's teeth, and she decided to give this particular delicacy a pass. Instead, she picked up a delicate flute of some sort of tropical fruit juice, remembering how much Dorian loved the stuff.

"Psst!"

She whirled and spotted Sera's blonde head behind the shadow of a pillar, wearing a wide and wicked grin instead of a mask. Clariel hesitated out of habit before remembering that no one was watching her tonight. Except Sera, apparently.

She let Sera drag her out of the ballroom and into the garden. "How did you know it was me?" Clariel asked.

If anything, Sera's lopsided smile grew even wider. "It's a secret! Same way I get into fancy parties without an invitation."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Course it doesn't. Now come on, you'll get a good laugh at this."

Confused but curious, Clariel followed Sera through the gardens. Little knots of people gathered here and there, some of them in passionate embraces. She was pretty sure that wasn't the Comtesse with Comte Doucy, and giggles and sighs came from behind a few sculpted hedges. They climbed up to the second level, stopping at a towering fountain hidden by black velvet cloth.

"Sera..." said Clariel, realization starting to dawn on her.

"Pbbt. I improved it!" And Sera yanked aside the heavy velvet with a street charlatan's flair.

Clariel almost choked on her drink. Sera had drawn huge pointed ears on one the fountain's winged lions in what looked like charcoal. "Good, innit?" she said. "In case they forgot how Elfy Pants saved their butts."

"But you don't even-" She didn't quite stop herself in time, and Sera's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"I don't have to be _elfy_ like you to stick it to _them_ ," she said, her smile vanishing. "Don't tell me you've got a stick up your arse now!"

Clariel looked from Sera, with her fierce eyes and stubbornly set jaw, to the childish scribbles on "the Blessed Herald's" memorial fountain. And suddenly, inexplicably, she was laughing harder than she had all year. The glass of juice slipped between her fingers, shattering all over the ceramic tiles, and she had to sit down on the edge of the fountain, still doubled over with giggles.

It was all so _ridiculous_. Everything from falling out of the Fade, to sitting beside the graffitied fountain meant to celebrate her triumphs. Varric was right-you really couldn't make this shit up.

Sera shook her head and sat down next to her. "Bloody daft. Someone will find it, and they'll clean up before the big fancy to-do. But you like it, yeah?"

This was the closest she'd get to any mention of Solas, any indication that today was different somehow. Clariel knew firsthand how much Sera hated giving or receiving sympathetic pity, and she felt a fierce rush of affection for her crazy friend.

"It's a better likeness now," she managed through her giggles. "I think you have a real future in Orlesian art!"

Her sass earned her a punch on the shoulder, hard enough to bruise, but Clariel couldn't care less at the moment. "Still got that charcoal?" she asked. "I wasn't the only one who contributed to victory. Let's see if we can make one look like Cullen."

Sera snorted. "Oh, that's good. You're all right, Lavellan."

It was a statement, not a question. And it wasn't quite true. But as she helped Sera add curly hair and braids and a hood to the other three statues, as they vanished into the shadows, it was close enough.


End file.
